


Discerning Tastes

by Irrevocably_Sherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Johnlock Roulette, Kiltlock Flash Challenge, Kilts, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Whiskey & Scotch, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 11:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4827221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sherlock felt a tingle of nervousness and excitement travel down his spine. He wasn’t lying when he said he normally doesn’t do this, invite practical strangers back to his flat, or in this case his hotel room, but something about John tugged at him in a way that felt instantly familiar. It was as if they had already known each other for a lifetime, and that first kiss was just their bodies’ way of reconnecting after so long apart. Even now, walking side by side on the ancient street felt comfortable in a way he didn’t even realize he craved. It was a delicious, heady feeling, compounded every time he swayed a little too close to John’s body.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discerning Tastes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kiltlock Flash Challenge - Based on the prompt: "I don’t even like whisky but I promised my friend/family member I’d buy them a special whisky and I can’t find it and now I can’t stop staring at your legs in your kilt when you come over to help me"
> 
> Thank you Jamlockk, and I hope I did this justice. 
> 
> Note: Not Beta'd, Brit or Scot-picked, all errors are my own. Enjoy!

It was getting late by the time Sherlock Holmes had finished his case, later still by the time all the paperwork was tidied up, and he knew there was no chance of making the last train back to London that night. Finding a hotel on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile, Sherlock decided he might as well make the most of the layover, and proceed out to walk the ancient city. Perhaps he’d find a present for Mycroft, he thought as he strolled. The two Holmes brothers were rarely given to any kind of familial affection, but the occasion of ones’ birthday could be an exception, Sherlock supposed. Perhaps a nice bottle of the Highland’s finest would be fitting.

Night had well fallen by the time he made it up the darkened street, leaving very few shops open. Seeing one opposite, he ducked inside. It was a smallish place, dark and musty, shelves stocked with rows upon rows of amber colored bottles. A short bar took up one end of the left wall, a number of bottles on its surface; obviously this place specialized in tasting. Large barrels lined the floor on the other wall, and the shelves continued upwards nearly to the ceiling.

Sherlock scowled at the rows of amber liquid in front of him. He didn’t know the first thing about Scotch, honestly. Sherlock wasn’t much of a drinker, and if he did imbibe, he much more preferred wine. However, Mycroft preferred Scotch, and Sherlock supposed he should attempt to get a good bottle. _But which one?_ Sherlock was resigned to just grab the most expensive one in his near vicinity when a voice caught his attention.

“Need help finding anything?”

Sherlock turned toward the source and came face to face with a… knee? _Oh. Oh_! The voice’s knee was bent, his loafer clad foot prone on the ladder step built into the shelves. Sherlock’s eyes trailed up the bent leg, up the stockings, up to where the wool of the muted blue and green kilt began. The man’s thigh, _muscled_ , was slightly exposed as the fabric opened at the seam revealing a bit of the skin underneath. Sherlock forced his eyes further upward, past the sporran dangling nicely from the man’s hips, up the Ghillie shirt showing off well-toned shoulders. Finally, Sherlock’s eyes settled on the man’s face, deep blue eyes and pale pink lips, currently set in a smirk, framed by a mop of golden hair.

“Um,” Sherlock swallowed, _why had his mouth gone dry all of a sudden?_ “Scotch?”

The man laughed. Actually, it was closer to a giggle, and the sound caused something to settle in Sherlock’s stomach and tighten. He wanted nothing more than to make the man do that again.

“Yes,” the man said, “I can see that. Anything in particular?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly, trying to get his mind back under control. _What was wrong with him?_ His eyes fell again to the bent knee and thigh still hovering not three feet from his face. At this angle, he could almost see up…

“Sorry. I’m looking for a decent bottle for my insufferable arse of a brother.”

The man smirked again and raised an eyebrow, _dear god, had he noticed where Sherlock had been looking?_ “Well, that should be easy then. We keep the ‘insufferable arse’ range on this side.”

The man stepped down from the ladder and walked to the opposite wall, pondering the selections. Sherlock tried not to focus on the sway of the kilt around the man’s thighs as he moved, or the outline of the shapely arse he had glimpsed. Still, he found himself suddenly flushed and struggling not to reach out and touch the soft fabric as the man passed.

“Do you know what flavours he’d like? Smoky, sweet, spicy?”

“No. It doesn’t matter. I’ll take whichever you recommend.”

“Of course it matters. Getting the taste right is very important. For example, what do you prefer?”

“Mm. Scotch…not really my area.”

“Ok. We are definitely having a tasting then. Can’t let someone leave without learning what they like. Sit down.”

The man walked behind the small bar, and pulled out a few bottles of the amber liquid and a couple glasses. Sherlock was grateful for the separation, because he could now tear his eyes from the man’s, _frankly breathtaking_ , legs in the kilt and focus on the, _equally as beautiful_ , face. _What was wrong with him tonight?_ Sherlock shed his coat and scarf as the man poured a small amount from one of the bottles and raised one glass to Sherlock, taking the other for himself.

“Joining me?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course, wouldn’t let you drink alone,” he said, and winked.

Sherlock, who had just raised the glass and begun to drink, started sputtering and coughing.

“Och, sorry! You really aren’t used to it are you?” The man laughed as he patted Sherlock on the back. Sherlock was quite certain the back patting was not helping, as the man had stepped closer to him again, his kilt brushing Sherlock’s knees where they were bent up on the stool. And oh, he smelled incredibly good as well. Like oak and woods and a hint of spice, and Sherlock felt a spike of desire pool in his belly and begin to spread.

“Thank you,” Sherlock rasped, “I’m quite fine now.” He desperately hoped the man would both keep touching him, and move away. It was strangely disconcerting.

“Good,” the man said, moving back around the bar. “Now, let’s try that again. But first, I didn’t get your name. I’m John, John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, Sherlock. Pleased to meet you. This time, try not inhaling it.”

Sherlock watched as the man, _John_ , raised the glass to his lips and slowly sipped. He closed his eyes and swallowed languorously, savoring the taste of the liquid.  Sherlock thought it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. John opened his eyes and fixed his stare on Sherlock’s pale green eyes, waiting for him to follow. Never breaking eye contact, Sherlock raised his own glass and swallowed, letting the amber liquid fill him. It warmed his throat on the way down, increasing the already rising temperature and flush in Sherlock’s cheeks. With any luck John would think it was only the alcohol.

John leaned forward on the bar, “So, what flavours did you taste?”

“Smoke. A hint of spice. Slight vanilla.”

“Very good,” John smiled, his blue eyes sparking. “We’ll make a connoisseur out of you yet. Another?”

Sherlock nodded. Something about John made him want to try new things. To stay here in the musty shop, sampling liquid pleasures with this beautiful man.

John poured them both another drink, then raised his glass to clink with Sherlock’s. This time they both kept their eyes on each other’s as they drained their glasses, swallowing slowly to let the notes linger.

“So?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock had to pull his gaze away from John’s to give it his full attention. “Sweeter. Still smoky, but a hint of honey, perhaps?”

“Fantastic, Sherlock! You’re a natural at this.”

Sherlock keened under the praise. _This was definitely dangerous_ , he thought.

The pair continued for three more samples, Sherlock pinpointing each one, John proclaiming Sherlock “brilliant” and “amazing” after each correct guess. After the last one, Sherlock was starting to notice a pleasant warmth settling over his body. He wasn’t quite sure if it was the Scotch or the company, but he did know he wasn’t ready for it to end.

John had moved to the other stool opposite Sherlock to pour the next round. This brought him in much closer proximity to Sherlock, his bare knees brushing his own where they were bent on the stool. Sherlock couldn’t help but look down at the part in the fabric where John’s thigh peeked out from under the wool. A fine dusting of blonde hairs grazed the surface. Sherlock found himself wondering what that tanned expanse would feel like under his fingertips. He hastily tore his gaze away and up to John’s face. Those deep blue eyes were staring at him with a look he didn’t expect. It was as though John seemed to understand the trajectory of his thoughts. As their eyes met, Sherlock shivered at the heat he saw reflected there. John looked at Sherlock like he wanted to devour him. With a shaky breath, Sherlock grabbed for his glass, spilling a bit on the liquid on his finger. He reached for a napkin, meaning to wipe off the offending amount, but John surprised him by taking his hand and sucking his index finger into his mouth, swirling his, _glorious_ , tongue around the tip.  Sherlock’s mind went completely offline as white hot desire shot through his veins settling somewhere in his groin.

“Here in Scotland, we call whisky, ‘Uisge Beatha’, Water of Life,” John said, pulling off of Sherlock’s finger with a wicked grin, “Wouldn’t want to waste a drop.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing out a moan that sounded close to John’s name. He leaned closer to John, opening his eyes at the last moment to find those deep blue pools boring into his. Sherlock raised one eyebrow, seeking permission for what he was about to do. John gave a tiny nod before sliding forward and pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s. The first press was light and teasing, a slow slide of lips, and Sherlock thrilled to learn that John’s were as soft as they looked. He could taste the faintest hint of scotch, an intoxicating blend of smoke and spice, and he wanted more. Sherlock threaded his fingers through John’s short blond strands, and tilted his head to deepen the kiss, opening his mouth to welcome John’s skilled tongue.

The kiss quickly turned hot, tongues meeting and withdrawing and both men were left panting by the time Sherlock finally broke away. Leaning his forehead against John’s, Sherlock paused for air, grateful that John had locked the shop before beginning their last round. Although to be honest, the bloody Queen herself could walk in right how, and Sherlock couldn’t care less. His thoughts were consumed with the man before him and _want, need, more_.

“I wanted to do that since the minute you walked in,” John said, breathing hard.

“Hmm?”

“Oh yes. Those cheekbones,” John said, punctuating his statement with a kiss to each one. “That neck, Christ,” John leaned down to kiss up the side of Sherlock’s neck, ridiculously chaste affairs, except for the hint of tongue that followed his trail, until he got to his ear. “Then I noticed you staring at my legs. You like the kilt, then?” John asked, swirling his tongue around Sherlock’s earlobe before biting gently.

Sherlock flushed, both turned on and embarrassed in equal measure at being caught out. He’d thought he’d hid his staring, but apparently John was more observant than he gave him credit for.  Although, considering where John’s lips currently were, sucking on the spot behind Sherlock’s ear, the punishment of being caught out was one he could live with. John moved lower to where the neck met the shoulder and bit harder. Sherlock moaned, both hands grasping John’s thighs where they were spread on the stool in front of him. The wool felt soft and heavy under his fingers, and Sherlock had a sudden urge to bury his face into the warm folds.

Sherlock lowered his head, capturing John’s wandering lips with his own, licking into John’s mouth to catalogue the tastes. John moaned, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, sucking on his bottom lip. John huffed out a laugh when Sherlock wrapped his hands around his hips and pulled, effectively depositing him into Sherlock’s lap, his inner thighs straddling Sherlock’s on the stool. The feeling of having the smaller man in his lap was heaven, and Sherlock instantly angled his hips up, causing both men to moan when confronted with the hardness contained between them. Sherlock did it again, almost making the stool topple over backwards. Only his hand on the bar kept them from falling arse over teakettle.

“Not the most comfortable place,” John said, massaging his fingers through mahogany curls.

“Perhaps not. John. I – I never do this. But, I’d very much like it if you’d accompany me tonight,” Sherlock swallowed. “If you’re amenable.”

John’s eyes gleamed as his lips twisted up into a smirk. “Amenable? I think so. Tell me,” he asked, moving Sherlock’s hand between their bodies to press against his hard length, “What do you think?”

The next few moments provided some needed calm for Sherlock as John put away the glasses and bottles they had consumed and finished closing the shop for the night. As the two men stepped out into the cool air, Sherlock felt a tingle of nervousness and excitement travel down his spine. He wasn’t lying when he said he normally doesn’t do this, invite practical strangers back to his flat, or in this case his hotel room, but something about John tugged at him in a way that felt instantly familiar. It was as if they had already known each other for a lifetime, and that first kiss was just their bodies’ way of reconnecting after so long apart. Even now, walking side by side on the ancient street felt comfortable in a way he didn’t even realize he craved. It was a delicious, heady feeling, compounded every time he swayed a little too close to John’s body. _Perhaps those five glasses of scotch did have an effect_ , Sherlock mused.

“You ok?” John asked, reaching out to place a hand at the small of Sherlock’s back after one especially violent lurch.

“Yes. Fine.” Sherlock could feel the warmth seeping through his coat, and instinctively moved closer to feel more.

John giggled, the sound trilling through Sherlock’s bones, and wrapped his arm more firmly around Sherlock’s waist, effectively locking them in an embrace as they continued down the Mile toward Sherlock’s hotel.  Sherlock could feel the sway of John’s kilt brush against the wool of his trousers with every step. The motion brought back other thoughts of what was awaiting him under that muted fabric, and suddenly he was on a greater hurry to reach his destination.

Finally they made it to Sherlock’s hotel. Once in the room, Sherlock began to feel truly nervous, wondering what he was doing there with this beautiful man. He quickly removed his scarf and coat, throwing them on the chair beside the double bed. _Should he offer a drink? Or had they done enough of that already? Room service?_ Sherlock truly felt out of his element for the first time in a while. He was torn between a desire to run away or press closer, and simultaneously hoping John would take the lead or at least show him what to do.

John seemed to read his mind. Shedding his own jacket, he stepped closer to Sherlock, crowding into his personal space, and reached up to pull his head down, crushing their lips together. _Yes_ , Sherlock thought, immediately deepening the kiss and touching his tongue to John’s. John let out a groan, his hands wrapping around Sherlock’s slim hips and drawing him closer to his body, his groan going deeper still as Sherlock’s hands settled onto his arse and squeezed. Sherlock smirked against his mouth, kneading the, _frankly fabulous_ , wool covered flesh with his hands.

His smirk was short-lasting however, as John decided to break the kiss and attach his lips to Sherlock’s neck. He licked up a pulse point, stopping to suck hard on Sherlock’s Adam’s apple. Sherlock felt his knees buckle, and John chuckled. “Hmm, like that?”

Sherlock could only nod, his senses still under assault by this relentless man, and John bent back down to nibble at the junction of neck and shoulder. John pressed them both further into the room, and Sherlock belatedly noticed the cold hardness of the wall at his back bolstering him up as John continued his attack on his neck and jaw.

Sherlock trailed his fingers up John’s back to his hair, pulling hard enough to bring his face level with his own before capturing his mouth again. There was nothing tentative about this kiss. It was wet, hot and bruising, all teeth and tongues, their moans mingling together in the still of the room.

Sherlock broke away this time to mouth along John’s jaw to his ear, sucking lightly, as his hands worked to untuck John’s shirt. He sighed against John’s neck when his fingertips finally made contact with bare skin, tiny jolts of electricity working at each point of connection.

“Off,” he growled, bunching the fabric and pulling.

John stepped away long enough to pull the shirt over his head and toss it behind him. He started to unfasten the kilt, but Sherlock’s hands settled over his, stopping him.

“No. This stays on,” he said, wicked glint in his eye.

“Oh, I see how it is,” John breathed, moving back in to capture Sherlock’s mouth, his hands working at the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. “I want to see you, too.”

Between kisses, the two of them finally got Sherlock’s shirt and trousers off, until he was wearing nothing but a pair of black silk pants. John broke away to remove the sporran from around his waist and his stockings. Sherlock pressed against the wall, his grey-green eyes hungrily watching every move.

They both reached for each other at the same time, hands groping, each fighting to take control. Sherlock felt the bed hit the back of his knees and fell back, pulling John on top. John pressed his advantage, quickly straddling one of Sherlock’s thighs and bringing their erections together.

“Christ, that’s good,” John moaned.

Sherlock had to agree; even through two layers of fabric the feeling was incredible. He bit his lip to keep from moaning out John’s name as he grabbed John’s arse and arched his hips, desperate for more friction. John trailed kisses down Sherlock’s jaw, pausing to suck a love bite on his collarbone before bending lower and swirling his tongue around one taut nipple. Sherlock whimpered and arched into John’s mouth. 

"Damn, that’s gorgeous,” John said, smiling against Sherlock’s skin, trailing hot kisses across his chest to take his other nipple into his mouth. Sherlock nearly bucked them off the bed, his hands coming up to clench at John’s broad back, a moan escaping his lips. 

“Jesus, Sherlock. You’re incredible. You could come just from this couldn’t you?”

John peppered every inch of Sherlock’s skin with kisses between his words and Sherlock was slowly unraveling.  He wanted to succumb to the promise of John’s mouth and touch, but first there was something he was dying to know, he had to know John’s taste. Without warning, Sherlock hooked his leg around John’s and flipped them over, settling between his spread thighs.

“My turn,” Sherlock growled, leaning down to capture Johns mouth.

He trailed his tongue down John’s jaw, back to his ear, sucking hard on the spot just behind. He continued down John’s chest, using his tongue to map every inch of the man below him. Sherlock paused when he reached the waistband of the kilt, looking at John through his lashes, then with a smirk, he raised the fabric and ducked underneath.

For a minute, Sherlock just stopped and breathed in the scent of John, his nose nuzzling his inner thigh. He slowly moved up, alternately kissing and biting until he reached John’s cock. It was lovely, full and heavy, and already glistening with pre-come, and Sherlock felt his mouth fill with saliva at the sight. He leaned down and licked up the underside slowly, closing his lips over the tip and sucking lightly. John moaned above him, his hands coming up to grab Sherlock’s head under the soft wool covering of the kilt. Sherlock sank back down, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hungrily, taking him in until he hit the back of his throat.

“Christ, Sherlock! Your mouth,” John said, his fingers gripping harder against Sherlock’s skull. Sherlock hummed around John’s cock as he thrust into Sherlock’s mouth. “Sorry,” he gasped.

Sherlock pulled off with a pop, “I don’t mind,” he said, and sank back down, taking John all the way back in.  He reached underneath and grabbed John’s arse, encouraging him to buck up into his mouth, and John began to thrust eagerly. Sherlock flattened his tongue along the underside on every stroke, sucking greedily.

“Fuck! Oh my God,” John moaned, gripping tighter, his thighs clenching.

His thrusts grew faster, and Sherlock could tell he was getting close by the tightening he could feel in his bollocks, the trembling in his body getting stronger. Sherlock was so hard, so aroused by John’s pleasure, he slid one hand down his body and took himself in hand, stroking in time with John’s thrusts.

“M’ close. Oh fuck, fuck!” John shouted as he came, thrusting hard into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock moaned, eagerly swallowing down John’s release, his tongue swirling over his length to catch every drop.  He continued until John became too sensitive, then pulled off, his forehead resting on John’s thigh.

“Come here.”

Sherlock paused to strip off his pants, wincing as the cold air hit his heated flesh, then crawled up John’s body, the rough wool of the kilt scratching his swollen erection. John pulled Sherlock down, licking into his mouth, groaning low in his throat when he tasted himself.

“God, Sherlock. That mouth should be illegal. You’re perfect, you know that? Now lets take care of you. What do you need?”

“Touch me, John, please,” Sherlock breathed. He was aware he was close to begging, but at this point he was beyond caring, needing to feel John’s hands on his aching flesh.

“Show me how, beautiful,” John said, shifting so they were on their sides.

“Like this, John, please…” Sherlock said, taking Johns hand and placing it on his cock.

John began to stroke, adding a twist at the tip and Sherlock keened. “Harder,” he moaned, snapping his hips and fucking into John’s fist.

John tightened his grip, and Sherlock was so, so close, _almost there_ , and then John bent down and bit down where his shoulder met his neck, and that was it, Sherlock came hard, spilling his release between their bellies. John held him through it, only releasing him when the shivers subsided.

“Jesus. You are bloody gorgeous. That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” John said, leaning forward to slide his lips across Sherlock’s. Now both sated from their release, the kiss was slow and languid, but full of promise.

Sherlock flopped over onto his back. Now that everything was over, the awkwardness was starting to creep in. _What happens now?_ He supposed he should offer to get up and get a flannel to clean them up at least, but honestly, he wasn’t sure if his legs would hold him.

John again appeared to read his mind, getting up from the bed and dipping into the ensuite. He returned with the cloth that he held out to Sherlock, and then sat down on the edge of the bed.  He seemed uncomfortable, looking anywhere but at Sherlock.

“Listen, Sherlock. I wanted you to know…Well, you said you normally don’t do this, and I don’t either. I... you’re special…I guess is what I am saying, and I’d like…That is if you’re not busy…”  John trailed off and met Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock was unsure of what to think. _What was he saying? Did he want to see him again? Should he say something? Ask him to dinner?_ Sherlock wasn’t sure what the protocol on not-quite-one-night-stands was. However, the thought of not seeing John again made something clench painfully in his stomach. _How could he already be so attached to this man after just a few hours? How could he have already wormed such a space into his mind?_ One thing was for certain; he didn’t want him to leave.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, grabbing John’s knee where it was bent on the bed. “Stay?”

John’s smile could have relit a dying star. He made to stretch out next to Sherlock, but stopped to reach for the fastenings of his kilt. “Can I lose this?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Mm. For now,” Sherlock answered, smirking up at him.

John giggled and lay down next to Sherlock, reaching for him and covering them both with the blanket. “Bit of a kink, there, gorgeous?”

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush, and he buried his face in John’s shoulder. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I simply admire fine craftsmanship when I see it.”

“Right.”

It was only later, as Sherlock was drifting asleep that he realized he never did get that bottle of Scotch for Mycroft, his sole purpose for seeking out John’s shop in the first place. _Oh well_ , he thought snuggling closer to John’s warmth, _guess I’ll just have to go for another tasting._

 

 


End file.
